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Defective brain Memory works in mysterious ways. My refuses to remember anything vaguely useful and but will store mindless information which ceased to be useful years ago (if it ever was) My brain for example tends to refuse to store names, dates and phone numbers. I struggle recalling the names of colleagues, I have no idea what my cousins' children are called and I have to think really hard to remember my parents' and siblings' birthdays. As for other people's birthdays if I have not written them down somewhere you might as well not expect a greeting. I still have to look up my mobile number, work number and home number. Although I can still dial by heart my dead grandparents' phone number I cannot do the same for the phone number of the set of grandparents who are still alive. Still when I took MFC to see Distant Voices, Still Lives at the British Film Institute* a week ago, I was not particularly surprised to find that I remembered most of the songs and could mouth the lyrics to more than anybody could expect from a film last seen in 1989. Since then one of the songs has been playing ear worm with me, particularly the following lines "brown skin girl stay home and mind baby, oh I killed nobody but my husband"; somebody please help remove it and replace it with something useful, like remembering where I put my car insurance papers so I can have my policy number ready when I call the insurer to tell them I have moved. *I strongly recommend the "pint of sausage rolls" by the way. |
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4.5.07 22:30 |
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Plans Now that the last load of cardboard, the broken window form the fight the previous tenant had had with an acquaintance/ drunken "customer"/ angry creditor (delete as appropriate) and his huge dead plant have found their way to the tip space outside the front door is clear again. I have found myself thinking of maybe having a small bed for herbs and maybe getting a packet of nasturtium seeds to add colour to the empty trellis and to my summer salads... yum peppery tasting flowers. I miss my garden . |
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7.5.07 21:15 |
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Vaudeville There I was with a basket full of washing, some pegs, the hope that the wind would be enough to dry the load of bedding before the next shower and the key to the flat. So far so good, so far so dull. Then I spotted the letter from British Gas to "the occupier" on the mat. I should have left it for after pegging out the washing, maybe even for after a cup of tea but I have the attention span of a goldfish on speed so my brain registered the letter as "shiny". After reading that my previous phone call to them had not resolved the problem and that they were now giving me an approximate date for coming round and cutting off the gas and that they would charge me £50 for the priviledge I lost it a bit. I left the washing by the door and rushed upstairs, the keys and the letter still in my hand to give British Gas a piece of my mind. After listening to the automated message telling me that they were busy because their prices are so low now that all these new customers switching to them are calling them and keeping their operators too busy to answer calls from people who have a problem with them for an amount of time I decided I might as well go put the washing out as planned and call them afterwards. I stepped out, closed the door and realised the key was still upstairs, inside the flat. Ooops not so good. 2 people have a spare key, one is on an aeroplane on his way back to the UK, the other is about 25 minute's drive away. Since I don't have their number on me, or the phone, or the key to car or any money on me for a bus or a taxi instead it seems pretty irrelevant anyway. So I look at the one window I have left open, and it's on the second floor and there is no way I am ever going to get over the fear of heights long enough to haul myself up there. I wonder if a locksmith would disregard the "do not attempt to enter this property. Bailiffs have changed the locks" little note taped in the window long enough to let me in. I wonder how long it would take to walk Balham and wait for MFC to make his way home from the airport. Knight in shinning armour in the shape of next door neighbour steps in, or to be more precise opens the door when I ring the bell. He tackles the huge ladder and despite being on the skinny side can't get through the tiny bathroom window. All the while I am thinking "please don't fall, please don't fall" and feel slightly nauseous every time the ladder I am holding wobbles a bit in the wind. Thankfully my neighbour has the number of my landlord's mum and once the address has been written down drives me to Clutching the key I step into the lift and am promptly followed by Quasimodo's uglier brother. We are not safely within the confines of zones 1-6. This is deep in Surrey. When in an enclosed space faced with a stranger, tube etiquette and eye contact avoidance do not kick in automatically. The chap wants to chat, and chat and chat. I can smell him and i am quite aware that I am unwashed and dressed in what looked like the best thing to wear for a slouchy day where I didn't expect any human contact. I am also quite grateful I did get dressed since being locked out in a chemise would have raised the embarrassment factor a notch or two. First thing I did when I got back to the flat? Give my next door neighbour a spare key and call British Gas because it was all their fault of course. |
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12.5.07 16:37 |
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Mum maths and sods' law 2 for 1 cinema tickets on Wednesday thanks to the mobile provider + making it in time for "The Bridge to Terabithia" = 1 happy 10 year old little boy (except for the sad bit of course which was "sad, very sad, almost crying sad but not too sad" said The Boy). It is fact that bladders will get that about to burst feeling about 15 minutes into a marathon 1 and 1/2 hour work phone call to the mother of all French call centres with 5 successive interlocutors with hanging music in between.
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23.5.07 21:22 |
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note to self Having nobody to celebrate it with makes good news feel a bit meh. Feeling meh about something I should be all joyful about makes me feel guilty. Catching up on washing up and washing before the week-end and before I run out of crockery is not a very effective distraction from the meh but at least I can pout in front of a clean plate instead of eatig tuna straight out of the tin. Things are looking up already.
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24.5.07 19:11 |
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One of life's small highlights "Welcome to Jamaica! May I see your ticket please?"* Even his beaming smile couldn't change the location (Lewisham) or magically improve the typical bank holiday weather. Still 10 out 0f 10 for trying, and I think I even managed to forget I had not yet had a cup of tea and that was cold and dripping wet long enough to return the smile. *Oooops I forgot the note which went with the asterix which was: How unudual to have your train ticket checked 5 times on a Sunday and have the barriers closed at 2 of the destinations. I guess the ticket inspectors took one look at the weather report and decided they'd be better off clocking some overtime rather than heading to the beach for the bank holiday week-end.
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27.5.07 15:49 |
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